


Playing Nurse

by theexile (timeheist)



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeheist/pseuds/theexile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fantastic things, so called... Magic that my hands had worked. Amy so excited, the Doctor so desperate. But it didn’t change anything.” Suddenly, Van Gogh tried to sit up, and Rory winced, putting a hand more sternly than he knew he was capable of on Vincent’s chest to keep him in place. “I - ?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Nurse

“And he’s sick?”

“Yes, I – don’t you think you’re dressed a little...?”

“Insane?”

“Indeed.”

“It’s... Dutch. Dutch... Nurse’s... Uniform.”

The man studied himself. Yes, Dutch. Somehow he knew that. Somehow it made sense. Somehow his mind was full of the Netherlands and nineteenth century medicine. But the time before this, it was the fiftieth first century, and government secrets. The time before that, it was World War Two, and turning off the lights for the London Blitz. It didn’t make any sense. Nothing made sense anymore. Only one thing, one person, made any sense. That thing, that person, was not one of the world’s most famous artists, on the cusp of his impending suicide.

The woman did not seem particularly convinced, but then, to get Vincent Van Gogh out of her hands she would have turned the hallucinating man over to the Devil himself. She nodded to the strange newcomer, claiming to be Dutch like the painter, and opened her mouth cynically. “Is there anything you need?”

The nurse took one look at the ‘patient’, the madman, the artist, his only lead, and closed his eyes sadly. “I – a pail of cool water. And blankets.” Van Gogh squirmed and moaned in despair, clawing at his head with curled hands and uncut nails. His heart sank, and his face darkened. “Then privacy.” He’d only ever seen Vincent’s face in paintings before, and back then he’d looked happy. One of them was on Amy’s – his and Amy’s – fridge door. Now he looked the same way that the nurse felt. It didn’t help much, with the nurse’s confidence. But nursing was something he could remember, and he had made an oath to help people. And besides – to help Amy, and the Doctor, he had to help Vincent. It made sense. “Please.”

The woman who had sent for him, a barmaid sent to retrieve Van Gogh’s overdue tab supposedly, scuttled off a little too eagerly. She clearly didn’t want to be there, but he hoped she returned with what he needed, and quickly. The nurse retained enough memory of twenty first century medicine to treat the symptoms of the fever, but there was nothing he could for the depression, not with what he had. And if the Doctor had taught him anything, it was that things had to happen. He could accept that, grudgingly, because if things could happen, they could be fixed, if it was meant to happen.

“Who – who are you?”

“R – Doctor... Nurse Williams.” His Dutch was perfect, unbelievably. Vincent’s eyes widened in surprise, not expecting to hear anything but French in return, and just for a second the nurse let a smile skim to his lips, and received one in return. Van Gogh’s hands had slipped away from his head and his breathing was just that little bit less laboured, but he was still sweating profusely, shaking as though somebody or something had put the fear of God in him. For the second time in a few minutes, the other man’s eyes skimmed the legendary paintings strewn across the bedroom and the house, his eyes resting on one oh so familiar sight. The TARDIS, the Doctor’s TARDIS, Amy’s TARDIS... What could have been his TARDIS. Exploding.

“You’re Rory.” Rory’s attention snapped back to Vincent Van Gogh, his eyes wide.

“How could you - ?!”

“He called me Rory. The Doctor. And Amy, so sad...” Vincent’s eyes fluttered shut, and Rory didn’t realise until his hands brushed the man’s clothed skin how close he had leant in. “They may call me mad, but I am not a fool.” Both men had heavy voices and heavy hearts, and they both mourned for the same thing. Rory bit his lip, and frowned. He sighed.

“She was a big fan.”

“They showed me.”

“Oh?”

“Fantastic things, so called... Magic that my hands had worked. Amy so excited, the Doctor so desperate. But it didn’t change anything.” Suddenly, Van Gogh tried to sit up, and Rory winced, putting a hand more sternly than he knew he was capable of on Vincent’s chest to keep him in place. “I - ?”

“You’re not well. Stay where you are.”

“Nonsense! I can see, I can stand, I can hold a paintbrush.” The idea seemed to hurt him again, and Van Gogh shuddered, his eyes falling on the very painting Rory had come to see. “He needs to see that painting!”

“Why did you paint it? What did you see? Is Amy okay?”

Vincent had opened his mouth to explain, but instead, he smiled knowingly, lying back and shaking his head. “Such beautiful red hair... She reminds me of sunflowers. Horrible flowers, but they look much better in her hands.” He chuckled. “I see she has the same effect on you, my friend.”

“Yes – well, no. Not sunflowers. Other things.”

“Like...?”

“The way she kissed. Or the way she used to kiss. Before...”

Rory set his jaw. He didn’t want to feel jealous of the Doctor, but he missed having his own fiancé to himself. He only wished she hadn’t taken his ‘death’ as permission to force things a step further with the Doctor. It wasn’t that he craved the attention, but his self esteem was slipping by the minute. What came next was an accident, more than anything else. Vincent barely had time to mutter something about knowing the feeling and liking his red hair, too, when Rory had moved his hand from where it was checking Van Gogh’s health down to his chest, and then down to his legs. Of course, he had intended on making sure that the man’s circulation was still running smoothly. What he found was definitely proof of good blood flow, but not quite expected, and Rory’s own length had reacted similarly. He covered his face, and let out a slight moan, muttering to himself.

“I’m not gay... I’m not gay...”

“Pardon?” The occasional French lilt of a man who had been away from his home for too long that Rory could detect in Vincent’s voice, Dutch-ified as he was, made him moan. He’d always liked French accents, ever since Amy had come back from Paris... But he didn’t want to think about Amy, not tonight, or at least, not that way...! The artist had raised a questioning eyebrow, and suddenly, Rory wished the nurse’s uniform had been a little looser. This wasn’t supposed to happen! He was supposed to be finding out if Vincent knew anything about Amy, curing him of his fever if he could, and then finding the crack again. Hoping this time, when he was pulled through, he’d remember what was going on, and come out a little closer to the love of his life. “Dr Williams?”

“Wha-?”

“You were in a dream.” Vincent laughed, and Rory covered his hips with the edge of the man’s one blanket, willing the nurse not to return too quickly. It was the only defence he had. “And they call me mad.”

“Mr Van Gogh –!”

“Vincent, please.”

“Van... Vincent. You wouldn’t believe me, if I told you.” This was harder than pretending to be a policeman in Wales. Rory was a nurse, this time it wasn’t too far from home. The uniform was unfamiliar, but strangely comforting. Why was he losing control of himself, his desires... His focus? “And I... Ooh...”

He purred. Actually purred. Vincent’s paint-stained hands, cracked and rough, lifted the blanket without abandon, expertly finding the bulge in Rory’s tight uniform’s trousers and stroking once, twice, then a little harder a third time. Rory gasped, then flinched, and finally groaned, growing harder still. Someone who gave a damn about him... It was wonderful. Shyly, still convinced that he wasn’t gay, he reached out and returned the favour, teasing Vincent’s hard cock with less precision or skill. He was new to all of this, despite all of Amy’s suggestions that they try this, try that, or try a threesome. Feelings for men... Call it twenty first century prejudice, but it scared him as much as it, admittedly, aroused him. Which was precisely what unnerved him, come to think of it.

Both hands sped up as confidence was gained, the TARDIS was forgotten, and wills were heightened. Rory managed to work out what to do, apparently doing a good enough job that Van Gogh moaned in return, even more flushed than he had been before. Rory noted that at least if he wasn’t do his job as a medic, he was apparently still making his patient feel better... And Rory was beginning to enjoy something he’d never thought he’d try. He moved, trying to give Van Gogh, the more dominant and apparently knowledgeable party, better access, and wound up bucking his hips for more, thrusting before he realised what he was doing. He flushed, neck and spine arching as Van Gogh’s other hand undid the buttons of Rory’s nurse’s trousers, slid them past his tense buttocks, and, anticipating needs, took his length in his hands and slid another hand to his arse. Rory choked, and squeezed a little too tightly. Vincent didn’t seem to mind.

“Is that better, nurse?”

“I’m supposed to be helping you!” Rory pouted, his breathing shallower, willing his own digits to continue. Vincent Van Gogh laughed honestly, and Rory looked reproachful. “What.”

“Keep doing that, and you are...” Rory didn’t know where the painter had learnt this, but he was glad that he had. His self control was almost failing him as he felt for the waistline of Vincent’s looser trousers, undoing the knot that held them up over the man’s slender figure, and pulled them carefully down and off; he told himself he was freeing the limbs to aid the circulation, and cooling the man down to help his fever. Yeah, right. Van Gogh was proud and erect, far from the madman history painted him as when... ‘In bed’, and seeing the freed cock was the last straw for Rory. He bucked, his sound less a cry and more a whimper, and as he tightened his hold on Van Gogh’s hard and burning cock the other man came too.

Rory kept his hold on Van Gogh on the sofa, looser, and Vincent wiped his hand on the rug before letting his thumb catch a tear from Rory’s cheek, smiling again. They were both panting, flushed and still almost hard, when the woman Rory had sent for provisions returned. Rory opened and shut his mouth like a fish, any sort of explanation dying on his lips, and as the woman ran out of the room, dropping the blankets and almost the pail she put down, he groaned. Vincent raised an eyebrow.

“We... I...”

“I think...” Van Gogh pulled his trousers back up, and tried to stand. This time, Rory didn’t stop him, but moaned as he lost sight of his half naked form. Vincent was polite enough not to mock him for it. “She’s gone for Father Benedict.”

“Ah. Of course.” Rory’s blush brought a laugh to Vincent’s face that, along with the strange sensations that were more alien and wonderful than anything the Doctor had ever shown him, were worth all the trouble they might get into. He didn’t realise he was on his feet until the real Dutchman was helping him back into his clothes, and wiping sweat from his brow as well as his own. Rory smiled too.

“Should I...?”

“No.” Van Gogh laughed. “If I can’t explain that was for medical reasons than I cannot claim to be an artist.” He picked up a paintbrush, and lay down again, thoughtfully raising it back and forth as he thought, and winked at Rory. “You’d better look busy again.”

Rory bit his lip, and finally, when he could drag his gaze away from the famous painter, picked up the pail and carried it over. He glanced out the window at the sky. Rory would never be able to look at Starry Night the same way again...


End file.
